


Kissed by Fire

by threelittlebirds



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Age Differences, Angst, Cultural Differences, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Lyrium
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-22 10:49:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2505122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threelittlebirds/pseuds/threelittlebirds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Watch yourself, mage."<br/>"Same to you, <i>Captain</i>."</p><p>One good thing about the Breach is how it brings people together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> A slowbuild relationship headcanon about my Lavellan/Cullen pre-release to get me through the last month before Inquisition. There will be fluff, angst, aggressive flirting, UST and eventual smut. If you like elves, this work is for you. All of it will probably end up vastly inaccurate, but it's fun to speculate.

The group marched along the muddy road for hours until Cassandra finally called to make camp. There was an outcrop of trees that offered some semblance of shelter and dry land, no small miracle in the fog laden moor they were crossing. Tents were erected, equipment tossed wearily aside and boots removed to dry by the fire before the march began again tomorrow. The mood, needless to say, was not a cheerful one. Despite this, the flame-haired elf seemed in good spirits, perching on a log while the dwarf lovingly cleaned his crossbow. Most of the other soldiers with the troop considered her an oddity and avoided her, or threw racial slurs in her direction. It wasn't exactly the response she'd expected.

A lone rider approached on a bay destrier as nightfall fell, a dark shadow moving through the heavy air. He dismounted with efficiency and fussed over his mount for a while, lacing up the stirrups and loosening the girth. Garbed in dull steel and damp looking furs, perhaps most distinct about his appearance was an ornate helm shaped like a lion's head

"Who's that?" demanded the elf, her ears perking up. Varric seemed amused at her interest.

"That's Knight Captain Cullen. Well, _former_ Knight Captain Cullen. I wouldn't call him that, he doesn't seem to like it."

She cast a curious glance over her shoulder in the man's direction, parting her hair as it obscured her view. "Really? He's a templar?"

She'd heard of such things of course, but she'd never actually seen one in the flesh. _Mage-hunter_. He didn't look much like any hunter she'd ever known: broad shoulders and heavy, noisy armour that looked far from practical or easy to move in. What would any of it do to protect against getting roasted alive? Those fur pauldrons would be highly flammable were they not drenched and sodden.

The dwarf shrugged. "Used to be, an important one too. I'm not so sure what he is anymore. He's the war council, the Seeker roped him in with me."

"You knew him?"

"In a manner of speaking," Varric chuckled. "Friend of a friend."

"Mythal's grace, that's exciting," she peeked at him through her hair again. He removed the lion's head, shaking out his own mane of gold and slightly squished hair as Cassandra approached. They greeted each other in that queer way humans did, and cast a few glances in the elf's direction.

"Not scared of him, Kid?" Varric raised a curious eyebrow. They'd already established she hated being called Elspeth, and Lavellan was too long for Varric's tastes. "I haven't met many mages who actually like templars."

"I'm not a child," she replied serenely, still eyeing the former Knight Captain with eager curiosity. "And I'm not afraid of him."

"Sorry, Freckles," said Varric, laughing again as he quickly changed nicknames. "You apostates are all the same."

"Why do you suppose he's here?"

The dwarf shrugged. "Maybe he was just in the neighborhood."

Former Knight Captain Cullen and Cassandra retreated to the larger tactical tent towards the back of camp, to shelter from the drizzle. The elven mage returned her attention to the flames, seemingly content to sit there all night watching them. The dwarf on the other hand, hated the rain.

"Come on, Freckles," said the dwarf, grunting as he hoisted Bianca over his shoulder. "Let's get out of this weather, and I'll teach you how to play cards."

Her face lit up, and he smiled to himself. It was nice to see someone smiling in this damned camp. They'd made it half way to the questionably neat rows of tents when raised voices stopped them.

"She survived the breach?"

"Yes."

" _Her?_ "

"Last time I checked you were also speaking to a woman, Commander."

"You know that isn't what I meant."

Cassandra and the Former Knight Captain's voices weren't exactly kept to hushed whispering, carrying easily to anyone within earshot. The elf stopped dead in her tracks, staring in the direction of the tactical tent all decked out in black and red finery. Her ears twitched again.

"Come on, Freckles, we'll catch something out here," muttered Varric, giving her sleeve a tug to try and pull her away before it got any worse, but for a waif-like creature she stood firm.

"She will be a valuable asset to the Inquisition. We need her."

"You can't be serious. She's an apostate. The Chantry won't support this."

"Hang the Chantry. She's coming with us. End of discussion."

The former Knight-Captain came storming out of Cassandra's tent with a wave of his hand, nearly running directly into the elf and the dwarf. His face immediately registered shock, even if his brows were still knitted and his cheeks were flushed. Varric cringed, looking warily up at the dalish mage. She'd remained unnaturally still throughout the brief tirade, only now she lifted her chin. Varric noticed her ears were pinned distinctly lower, and while she wasn't glaring per se, he'd guess the hard look she was giving was about as close as the cheerful elf got. It reminded him of a horse that was about to kick someone.

Cullen shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny, his cheeks colouring further in the wan light. He adjusted his deflated looking fur pauldrons and shifted his ornate helmet under his arm before clearing his throat.

He offered only the barest of nods in their direction. "Watch yourself, mage."

"Same to you, Captain." The elf's tone was cold, not quite sharp and placed particular emphasis on _Captain_. Not waiting to see how he reacted, she turned curtly back in the direction of the tents, and Varric was quick to follow, sucking in breath and glancing back at the bedraggled shape disappearing into the gloom. The dwarf could have sworn it actually rained harder around the stony soldier.

"You were right, Freckles," muttered Varric, shaking his head ruefully as he trailed after her. "You aren't scared of him."

 


	2. I Am Not Your Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The walk to Skyhold is a long one.

"I'll never understand your fascination with trees, Freckles."

Varric sat propped against the gnarled trunk of an enormous oak, oiling Bianca after a particularly messy confrontation with a bunch of bandits. They'd been more organised than most and had caught some of the scouts by surprise, resulting in a mad scramble to minimise casualties. In the end the elven mage had rained fire and brimstone down upon the hoard, leaving quite a few in stunned silence as the bandits burned. Such an act of violence had seemed impossible from the little elf, but even when it was over she merely wiped some soot from her brow and smiled. Varric could have sworn Solas was going to propose then and there.

The clash had left a number of men and women with some nasty injuries that were being patched up as they spoke. Elspeth had helped initially, using her grasp of healing and herbs to offer a much needed boost to the rudimentary field healthcare. Now it seemed she was more intent on climbing trees while the camp recovered and regrouped.

"You've never wanted to be taller?" she asked, as she hung upside down off a branch, her auburn hair dangling beneath her and making her look remarkably like a squirrel. Just as quickly she pulled herself up again and darted up a few more levels, nimble like a cat.

"No," Varric chuckled, "The further I can keep from the sky the better. We dwarves like living as low as possible, even up here on the surface."

"You see so much more up here," came the reply, more muffled as she climbed higher. "We used to spend so much time in trees when we were younger. It drove the Keeper crazy."

"Yes, I'm sure she appreciated having to mend broken bones every week." Varric smiled to himself. The image of elven children hanging from trees like ripe fruit was an amusing one.

From across the impromptu encampment, a familiar lion helmet came weaving through the wagons, and Varric straightened up a little in his post. "Don't look now, but here comes trouble."

Cullen, Varric thought, looked happier than he used to, but right now with his forces recovering from an attack they probably should have see coming there was no ghost of a smile, only a crinkled frown that creased his brow. The Commander removed the highly ornate helmet as he approached, leaving him with a nasty case of helmet hair and gore from the fight was still smeared across his armour. He nodded to Varric stiffly, which was about as friendly as the two of them got. It was a truce of sorts, a necessary one after the events at Kirkwall.

"Varric."

"Commander."

Cullen hefted the helm under one arm and rested an arm on the hilt of his sword. It was probably self restraint on his part that kept him from tapping an armoured boot. "Where is the mage? Cassandra is asking for her."

Varric smirked and returned his attentions to Bianca. "Haven't the foggiest."

A twig landed on Cullen's head, causing him to peer up and spot a pair of tan leggings disappearing over a branch. He deposited the helmet on a root and folded his arms across his breastplate, blood and dirt be damned.

"Are you the errand boy now?"

Cullen shot a glare at the still smirking dwarf, before returning his gaze skyward. A pair of enormous brown eyes stared back.

"What in Andraste's name are you doing up there?"

"Scouting," came the muted reply.

The Commander let out a heavy sigh as his view was once again obscured by tangled branches. All he could hear was rustling.

"Mage-" he cleared his throat, catching himself. There were more sounds of twigs snapping from above, and more leaves fell. " _Inquisitor_ , I really must insist. Come down at once, before someone gets-"

There was another snap, much louder than the others that interrupted him. He barely had time to frown and catch Varric's grin before something suspiciously elf shaped collided with him. They dropped to the earth in a tangle of limbs and clanging armour, the elf's weight knocking the wind from his lungs. He'd taken the brunt of the impact, with the mage finding herself crumpled but otherwise unharmed atop his breastplate. Elspeth blew a few strands of hair off her face with a huff, and Cullen groaned.

"-hurt."

In the background, Varric laughed heartily until he was clutching at his chest for breath. "Well, at least we know the armour works."

The Commander's head slumped back against the ground in defeat. He should have kept the helmet.

 

\-----

 

The weather closed in around them as they climbed higher into the Frostbacks. Soldiers sunk deeper and deeper into drifts, progress was painfully slow and the scant number of healers were busy keeping frostbite at bay. The elf seemed not to mind as much as her fellow travellers, not the camping, not the cold - though she did cheat with magic to warm her. She didn't sink into the snow like the rest of them. Varric had enlisted her arcane help being dragged from drifts, because there was no way she could lift the solid dwarf. Then the pair had huddled around a floating ball of flame to warm up. When the Commander had seen this, he hadn't been impressed.

It was Cassandra and Solas who had to retrieve him from a particularly deep hole he'd sunk into while the young elf and the dwarf watched on, barely straight faced. He was left shivering with no magical fire to warm him as the party trudged onward through the mountains. Cassandra only helpfully told him to watch where he stepped next time.

"There looks to be an outcropping to the north-east, we should scout the perimet- Inquisitor?" Cullen did a double take as the elven mage walked behind the Seeker. Elspeth froze in place and looked at him with wide eyes, the plump red fruit pressed against her lips, looking distinctly guilty. "Is that a strawberry?"

She bit down slowly in reply, like a naughty child caught stealing treats but not wanting to give up their prize when they were inevitably discovered. Cullen persisted, bewildered, while Cassandra smirked and strode off in the direction of the supply wagons, shouting orders as she went.

"Where on earth did you get that? In these parts? It isn't even the season..."

"Are you sure you want to hear the answer?" She gave him a meaningful look and Cullen sighed. Magic.

She finished the fruit, leaves and all, before raising her eyebrow at him with a knowing smile. "Do you have a problem with me, Commander?"

A problem? No. Several problems? Certainly. Her wanton use of magic made his skin crawl, her behaviour seemed frivolous in the face of recent events and she had a total disregard for authority.

"Whatever gave you that impression?"

An attempt at civility, at Cassandra's request, but it certainly wasn't a no. A tiny ball of flame flickered just above her palm, warming her skin and casting a faint glow. His eyes fell upon it immediately, wary.

"Magic is not inherently bad," she said simply, walking in a circle around him, placing those dainty feet so they made no sound on the ice. She didn't even seem to think about it, instead intent on gauging his reaction, that coy smile still there despite the levity of her words. "Magic doesn't make people bad. Dreams come from the Fade too, you know. Fear, anger, hate. These make people do bad things. Not magic."

"We can either cultivate fear and feed the hatred," she murmured, casting a glance at the smoking black smudge in the distance. "Or we can embrace a different path."

His brows knotted together as he frowned, blinking rapidly as though he'd been caught in a trance and she laughed, a lyrical sound that held a darker edge. She met his gaze levelly, knowingly, while he said nothing. She looked like she'd just won something. The hem of her skirts brushed his legs as she walked past him, no doubt in search of the dwarf.

"I am not your enemy, Commander."


	3. Ladders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan likes climbing things: trees, rooves, ladders...

The acquisition of Skyhold had gone as smoothly as one might have hoped. Though the abandoned fortress was surrounded -and in many places covered- in snow, it offered refuge. Repairs had begun slowly, with the Inquisition cut off from its resources. Cullen didn't mind: it was better than camping, even if his room was more open to the elements than closed. It was his, his space, something that he'd found he needed over the years. It was small, it was broken, but it was his.

"Good day, Inquisitor."

The chirpy elf had come skipping in - skipping - to discuss the correspondence from the latest military surveys after she'd returned to the fortress. From what he'd heard, she'd done good work, securing many useful resources and country they'd desperately needed. He personally held many reservations about the younger woman, but she seemed hellbent on proving all of them wrong, albeit in her almost childlike demeanor. Cullen was beginning to think it wasn't an dalish trait either, it was unique to her. 

"Commander," she replied with a nod, meeting his gaze. The constant eye contact made him feel a little uncomfortable, like she was somehow seeing something secret about him. Perhaps the elves spent more time staring at each other than humans did. He'd ask her, only he didn't want to offend and it would only demonstrate just how much he'd noticed, or how much it bothered him. 

Her eyes did actually drift for once: this was the first time he'd actually summoned her to his office and not the war room, for convenience's sake. Her gaze settled on the ladder leading to his bedchamber, such as it was, and her face lit up like one of her notorious spells.

"Oh, is that your room?"

He cleared his throat, frowning for a second. "Uh, yes, the stairs caved in so I had a ladder put up..."

She'd darted off in their direction before he could finish, and was up them like a cat before he could utter more than a disgruntled shout in protest.

"Inquisitor!"

"Oh, your room is _lovely_."

Lovely is hardly the word he would have used. He craned his neck up at her, doing his best to ignore the view of her rear being presented by the tan trousers she wore while clinging to the upper rungs. He already knew from experience the Inquisitor loved to climb, knew all too well, so really he only had himself to blame for not foreseeing the temptation.

"Yes, yes, about those reports-"

She scampered over the edge and into the room, and he was left with the option of calling up to her or following her. He chose the latter. She was peering up at the gaping hole in the roof and the wall barely being held together by a collection of vines, still looking like she was seeing something beautiful and fascinating. She turned to him with the same expression, a broad smile stretching between her tapered ears. Cullen was quite at a loss for what to do: his room was being invaded. Not that there was much of him about it: but the principle remained the same. Did the elves not have a sense of personal space?

"This is great," she even had the audacity to bounce on the edge of his bed experimentally for a second or two. "Did you want my room? It's bigger than this one, you'd probably like it."

Cullen huffed, fur paultrons ruffling on his shoulders while he struggled to catch up. "If you like it so much, why are you trying to get rid of it?"

"I like your room more," she replied, casting a glance happily up at the caved in rafters. "Reminds me much more of home, plus it's so high."

Of course, she'd like it because it was perched precariously on the edge of a tower. 

"Unfortunately, I'm not the one assigning sleeping arrangements," he replied diplomatically. Cassandra had divvied out the living quarters, and of course she'd given the Inquisitor the largest room. So accommodating, it was truly ironic that the Inquisitor would have preferred something much more modest. Cullen liked it because it felt cozy despite the persistent drafts, the walls were comforting, intimate, separate from the world. It was an escape. He'd utilized the bookshelf in the corner, and restocked the fireplace, and even managed to drag a large armchair up. It was perfect really.

The Inquisitor went and gently ran a hand over some of the vines creeping along the wall, peering out the window into the courtyard far below, bustling with builders and craftsmen. "If you ever tire of that ladder, you know where to find me."

The Commander squinted at her, trying to decide if the line had been innocent or not. He had to remember that the common tongue may not have been her first language. Her smile spoke of nothing untoward, so he decided he was reading too much into it. "I'll keep that in mind. Now, those reports."

"Of course, Commander" she said with a small smile and a nod, before casting a wistful glance over her shoulder and passing him to descend the ladder again. He caught the faintest hint of tangy fragrance as she passed, close enough for the loose hair from her braid to brush his arm - she barely came up to his shoulder. He followed her down, noticing that the vines now bloomed with tiny white flowers. He'd have to be careful she didn't just move in and claim it as her own without him noticing. He might return one night to find her in his bed. No, that train of thought would not be entertained.


	4. Wren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor drops in on the Commander, and gets a new nickname.

"What is she doing?"

The trio looked up at the roofline of the castle, jagged and broken in places as they watched a small shape leaping between eaves. Bull could only scratch at his stubble in confusion while Varric and Sera shielded their eyes against the glare to get a better look.

"Don't ask me," Varric shrugged, "What do elves do? Frolic?"

"Don't be daft," said Sera. "We don't go frolicking in trees... or on rooves."

"How did she _get_ up there?" continued Bull, thankfully so tall he didn't risk decapitating his two smaller companions when he tilted his head to the side.

"Hey now, don't you be getting any ideas!" retorted Sera when she spotted how he was eyeing her thoughtfully. "Elves don't fly. Could be magic for all we know."

"What's magic?" asked Cassandra, coming over to investigate the small gathering. She quickly followed their gaze to where the elven mage was scaling a wall to a higher roof top with remarkable dexterity.

Varric shook his head. "I don't think it's magic. She likes being taller, or something."

"She's going to kill herself!" said Cassandra, aghast when she spotted the shape moving up the side of the tower.

"No need to be so hasty, Seeker," chuckled Varric, giving Cassandra a reassuring pat on the arm. "She's surer on her feet than a cat. I don't think she's going to fall from anything unless she does it on purpose."

There was a shout from the rooftop and they all looked up again. The young mage had made it to the top of the tower, but evidently its foundations were less solid than they appeared. With a crash, she disappeared with flailing limbs.

"...You were saying?" growled Cassandra, rounding on the dwarf who threw up his hands in surrender.

"Have you heard that cats always land on their feet?"

The beams that had seemed so solid gave way and she was falling, letting out a yelp of surprise. Elspeth crashed through the rotten wood back first, scrambling wildly for something to break her fall. Her fingers gripped a crossbeam and she held on for dear life, wincing at the rough wood digging splinters into her skin and the scream of pain from her shoulders as she came to a dead stop. The pain thrummed through her arms, but she didn't think anything was dislocated. Probably.

She knew of course as she looked down which tower she'd fallen into, the tallest one on this side of the walls. The floor to Cullen's room was still a little further down than she'd have liked, now covered in more splintered wood. The man himself had jumped to attention at the sudden intrusion, scattering scrolls and missives across the ground. The day was still young, young enough apparently that he hadn't bothered to adorn himself in his usual regalia, instead dressed in a simple tunic, rolled up to his elbows, and loose trousers. The garb of someone not expecting to have their solace interrupted quite so rudely.

"Inquisitor?" he managed, brows knitting together. His hands relaxed around the pommel of his sword, propped against his armchair. He might have been more prepared for an attack than this.

"Aneth ara, Commander," she replied cheerfully, offering a smile as she still hung from the rafters like an acorn on an oak. "Fancy finding you here."

His mouth still hung agape, clearly he was somewhat slower in the mornings. "What in Andraste's name..."

She shifted her position so she wouldn't lose her grip, wincing as she dug the splinters deeper. "Would you believe me if I said 'scouting'?"

He closed his mouth and drew himself up a little straighter as he regained composure, shifting his hands to his hips. "No."

The Commander made no motions to assist her, and she again shifted uncomfortably in place, feeling her grip beginning to slip. A deep sigh escaped him, a sound quickly becoming synonymous with their interactions, before he walked over to stand under her and help her down.

"Do you make a habit of falling on people?" he asked, arms going around her calves and then her waist, supporting her as she slid down. She was remarkably light, it was a wonder the rafters had caved in at all.

"Only you, Commander," she replied with a saintly smile. They stood like that for a moment, frozen with his hands around her waist while she looked up at him with teasing eyes. His face remained impassive, though his hands might have jumped the tiniest fraction.

"Lucky me," he said dryly, setting her down on her toes. Her ears wiggled, and dimples formed in her cheeks. Cullen huffed. She was playing with him. They both looked up at the Inquisitor shaped hole in his roof, which hadn't exactly been very effectual before.

"I'll, uh, let Cassandra know that needs fixing, on my behalf," she said, still not sounding nearly as apologetic as she ought to. "Its a shame I didn't ruin your bed as well, you could have gotten it replaced."

"What's wrong with my bed?" demanded Cullen, taking the bait as she waved it in front of him.

She pursed her lips and smirked, casting a glance at the sad looking piece of furniture in the corner, unkempt which surprised her. She'd have pegged the Commander for someone who was meticulous in all areas. "It's a little small, isn't it? Wouldn't your feet hang off the end?"

"You're a little small. Are you suggesting I replace you with something larger?"

She opened her mouth to retort, then closed it again, and the corner of Cullen's lip twitched in satisfaction. He might have been the military advisor, but that didn't mean his wits were any duller than his sword. Even if his feet and arms did hang off his bed at odd angles.

"Was there something else you needed, Inquisitor?"

She drew herself up to her full height and smiled coyly, while he regarded her with a raised eyebrow. "Not at all, Commander. Ma serranas."

He watched her go, the suddenness of it dumbfounding him once again. He really hadn't fully woken up that morning. He'd completely forgotten to tell her to keep off his roof.

The elf climbed down the ladder gingerly, minding her stinging hands, landing in the office below as the doors burst open and Cassandra came hurrying in, with Varric, Sera and Bull in hot pursuit.

"Inquisitor! Are you alright?"

"She's _fine_ ," came the dry call from above them, and the small group all looked up in confusion.

"The Commander will need a new roof," said the elf sagely while Cassandra's expression wilted, "Though he assures me, not a new bed."

"I- of course, Inquisitor," said Cassandra, trailing off as she slowly processed the entirety of what the little elf had just said. The remaining trio looked equally perplexed, and the mage used the confusion to skip in the direction of the door. It took the rest of them a moment to follow after her.

"You know, I don't think Freckles actually suits you, elf," said Varric, jogging to catch her up.

"Oh?" she asked, humming to herself and drawing the splinters from her palms with magic as she walked. "What would you propose?"

There was little doubt the mage was covered in freckles from years spent outside, but the dwarf was clearly going somewhere with this. He was just waiting until he had an audience, and the others turned to look at him.

"Freckles is too common," he grinned, waving his hands dramatically. "Wren on the other hand, now that's perfect?"

"Wren?" repeated Sera, not making the connection.

"She flits about, she sings almost constantly, she eats berries and spends far too much time perching in trees," finished Varric with a flourish. "Or on rooves."

There was immediate laughter from Bull and Sera, while Cassandra still struggled with the sudden turn of events. A giant hand slapped the elf on the back, nearly knocking her over.

"I like it," declared Bull in his booming baritone, while the two elves linked arms companionably. It was easier than Elspeth in any case.

"Wren."


	5. Yield To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Wren get competitive and physical. Who says warriors and rogues have all the fun?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a while guys, hopefully the length makes up for it. More chapters will come quickly as I've been sitting on a few.
> 
> As an aside, I based a lot of Wren's combat style off Shaolin Ying Shou Gun fighting, if anyone was curious. And she's an arcane warrior, no one can convince me otherwise. Sorry devs -viva la dalish-

Birdsong drifted in through the open window.

Sunbeams came with it, the first breath of the new day. It was still early, too early. Rubbing his hands roughly over his face, Cullen groaned as he slowly rose to consciousness. As usual, he was sore, some parts of him more than others, but he knew he should be thankful he was sleeping in a bed and not on a bedroll in the middle of nowhere. The keep was far from luxurious, but Maker it was worlds better than camping.

The only party member who'd even seemed remotely enthused about the prospect had been the Dalish mage. No surprises there: they were used to sleeping on the ground. She'd made some cheery comment about how it stretched the spine, or improved one's breathing or something. Cullen called bullshit. He'd take a soft mattress over the hard ground any day. Rolling over, he buried his face in the pillows. Yes, soft was good.

He let out a long sigh, making a sound deep in his throat and was willing to let the morning pass him by when the melody from outside grew louder, accented by warbling giggles. Groggily he pushed himself up, blinking rapidly to clear the sleep from his eyes. There it was again. Rising from the sheets was laborious, his limbs protested and groaned and his skin hissed and goosepimpled where the cold air touched it. He staggered to the window and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the blinding glow.

The courtyard below appeared empty at first glance aside from the movements of the birds in the trees, until he looked down directly beneath his tower where, many floors below, the auburn-haired mage knelt. Her hand was outstretched, and she appeared to be trying to coax some of the birds from the trees. One had hopped onto her palm and might have been investigating food, he couldn't tell from this distance. Resisting the urge to call out about keeping the noise down, he was about to turn away from the window when she straightened and retrieved a long wooden pole from the ground beside her. Wren shed the cloak she'd been wearing, stripping down to form fitting leathers as she took position in the centre of the yard.

Grasping the pole directly in front of her with both hands, she did not move save for the rise and fall of her shoulders for a few moments, then painstakingly, she shifted her weight to move around the staff. Next she lifted it above her, twisting her back so the staff could remain balanced as it travelled. This pattern continued, growing increasingly complex and swift as she moved through positions and sequences, though it became difficult to discern where any one finished and another began. She was training, he realised. but it was far different from the stringent regime he'd been subjected to over the years, though the end result he didn't doubt was equally deadly. During the long trek through the mountains there'd been precious few chances for him to see her in combat, and all of those had ended swiftly at the mercy of her flames. This was different, more familiar yet also so alien.

He was once again struck by how rhythmical she made everything, whether it be walking or fighting, it was mesmerising to watch, like a trained dancer. Her feet moved independent of what her upper body, yet always maintained that balance. None of the mages he'd ever known had moved like that in battle; her staff was an extension of her body, to be used accordingly. It was obvious where she mimed casting a spell, but that was only half of what she achieved with the training prop, using it for balance, for momentum, to physically incapacitate enemies, to dodge and evade. It was not like any other mage or warrior he'd ever come across, and he wondered whether the style was Dalish in origin or whether she'd simply developed it on her own. Her movements were too clean for her to have never been taught - someone had once shown her how to use a blade, that much was obvious.

He watched her until the glare became too much, and he wandered back into the shade of the room to dress. The mage's trainings continued for almost a week before, driven by whim and no small amount of professional curiosity, he tugged on a loose fitting tunic and wandered down to investigate.

"May I join you?"

Her head snapped back in his direction, the intensity in her face and stance lingering only for a moment before she relaxed, morphing disturbingly back into the wide eyed elf he recognised her as. Wren didn't look scary exactly - he wasn't sure her appearance alone would ever excite such a response - but she certainly managed to look more dangerous. A wide smile softened her features and crinkled the corners of her eyes, furthering the detatchment.

"You honor me, Commander," she replied, resting one hand to balance the staff. She was a little out of breath, and a thin sheen of sweat clung to her arms. It became her rather well. "I can move elsewhere if you wanted the space?"

He shook his head, reminding himself that it was not her native tongue. "No, I was wondering if you would spar with me?"

It was, in hindsight, an odd request and the quizzical expression on her face said as much. He felt obligated to explain himself. "I have not seen your style of fighting before."

She shrugged, studying him shrewdly. "I imagine not, there are few Dalish mages and fewer still that seem very interested in combat or combat tactics."

"And you are?"

Wren laughed, the same lyrical sound that had woken him up in the first place. "I'm interested in everything. That's my job, or was my job," she sobered for a moment, dropping her gaze before meeting it again. "But I'm not sure you'll get what you want from sparring. My fighting style means I am not often a target in close quarters."

"I've seen you down here," he said, barely blanching at the admission he'd walked straight into. The words had already left his mouth, it was too late. "Half your combinations are executed at close quarters."

She remained silent, holding in a grin. He had little time to be embarrassed however, because another fact struck him.

"Are you implying I will not be fast enough to match you?"

"Did I say that, Commander?" she asked, neatly avoiding the question while she continued to smile in that frustrating way of hers. "But if you insist, you are welcome to try."

It was arrogant, it was cocky, and it was a challenge he couldn't resist. His pride wouldn't allow it, and his logic dictated she was bluffing. Cullen had spent a lifetime training with the sword, learning strategy, honing his skills. He had not spent that time in vain only to bow to a cocky upstart of a mage who thought she knew everything.

He moved to retrieve one of the wooden training swords from near the mannequins over by the wall, while she stood waiting. He would wipe that smug smile off her face if it was the last think he did. "Perhaps we will both learn something from this experience, Inquisitor."

She offered no response other than the quirk of a lip as she settled down into a relaxed pose, ready. Wren was warmed up, even if she was tired. Cullen twirled the wooden blade experimentally, feeling how it moved and its balance. It was far from refined, but he'd dealt with worse. They stood watching one another for a moment or two before he took the first step and began to circle.

Gone again was the innocent youth, the mask falling away to reveal something more predatory in her gaze. A wide grin revealed pointed canines. "Rules?"

"No magic, no shields," he said, and she nodded in agreement. "Break stance when offered a yield, or the opponent is disarmed or incapacitated. Controlled contact only."

"Very well."

Her posture shifted and he was too slow to catch it, receiving a stinging smack on his arm from the staff. She held stance, hair swinging to a stop as the morning light lit her eyes on fire.

"Yield," he acquiesced, rolling his shoulders and buckling down as she ducked back to her original place. When she moved in again, he was ready for her, knocking away her staff with a hollow thunk. She moved with it, dancing around him on the balls of her feet and landed another two light taps from the longer weapon as she did. Though his reach was greater, the staff meant it would still be difficult to reach her while she could reach him, unless one of them closed the distance. Wren didn't approach for another attack however, still dancing about and goading him to move in ever tighter circles.

Spotting the danger before she could run him off his feet, Cullen stepped back and away, forcing her to follow him. Her strengths lay in her footwork and her speed, so he'd have to limit them as much as possible. He could also not let her dictate the pace, or she'd try to bring everything right back to her comfort zone and out of his. It was almost like fighting a duelist, only she had a medium range weapon - her aim was to stay out of his direct line of attack as much as possible. Unlike a duelist, he didn't have the guarantee of them coming in close enough to incapacitate or disarm them. He pushed against her advance, darting forwards and getting her on the back foot, a right jab blocking her from whirling around him to try and flank.

It could only last for so long, because she saw through his tactics as he had hers, and she sprang away, out of his immediate range, using the increased distance to maneuver in a hypnotic display of complex footwork and whirling staff. He was rewarded for that observation with a stinging rap on the hip.

"I thought we agreed to controlled contact," he said with a grunt, knowing that mark was going to leave an impressive bruise.

"I am controlling my contact," she replied, more than a little out of breath but it was another dare. He advanced again and a rapid exchange of parries followed, filling the otherwise still courtyard with the sound of dull wood against wood. Her hand position shifted when he moved in on her like that, forced her on the defensive. Evenly spaced along the long pole, it would be very difficult to knock it from her hands. Her grip was far less stable when she attacked, holding it closer to the ends, or when she moved and held it on only one palm.

The fight moved back and forth for minutes, each trying to dictate the direction of combat. Wren had been right: their respective fighting styles meant that only one could be working to its fullest potential at a time, and the struggle to control the battle was passed back and forth. Cullen kept pressing her as the aggressor, constantly trying to force her to loosen her grip on her staff and back her into a corner where she couldn't move, while she danced and sprang around him trying to run him off his feet. A number of times he thought he had her, only she would wriggle out of reach again with dives and leaps and rolls. Her flexibility made him feel old. Cullen got hit more times than she did, but he hit harder, and every blow she parried sent shocks jarring down her arms. It was hard to pinpoint the exact moment the spar had become a competition, with neither willing to back down.

"Creators guide me," Wren muttered under her breath, chest well and truly heaving, stray locks of hair clinging to her sweaty temples. She was getting tired. Cullen smirked for half a second. Not even Andraste herself could help her now. More blows were exchanged, one that was probably more wild than it should have been catching her hard in the side, knocking her off balance. Despite his immediate reaction to take advantage, she rolled with it onto the earth, swinging her staff wide and catching him behind the knee. He toppled, and the staff spun again as she tried to get around him, wrenching his arm behind his back. It was the opening he'd been waiting for.

Cullen rolled, using his weight to toss the much lighter elf onto her back, forcing any remaining air from her lungs. The staff went up defensively again, but only with one hand and he smacked it aside with the wooden sword, pinning her in place with an arm across her collarbone to prevent her escape, straddling her waist. She wiggled once, twice then went limp, defeated. The rise and fall of her chest came hard and fast, and he could feel her heartbeat insistent against his skin. She wasn't the only one out of breath, and sweat trickled down his temple, now cooling rapidly in the chill air. Slowly, a grin crept across her face, to match her flushed cheeks.

"Yield?"

Cullen became acutely aware of their prone positions as he leaned over her, his skin pressed against her throat and the faint shudder of her stomach against his thighs. He rolled off her with a huff and onto his back, beginning to feel the damage she had wrought as adrenaline wore off and muscles began to cool. He made an effort to dust off his arms as he rocked onto his ankles, but he well and truly needed long soak and a good scrub and despite her darker skin Wren wasn't faring much better. Her hair was unraveling, with a twig or two sticking out at odd angles and the tan tunic she'd worn was looking many shades darker than when they'd begun. She looked like a wild thing, only she didn't seem to mind. Cullen wouldn't have minded either, had he not spotted a red welt developing on her arm.

"I hurt you," he said, horrified. With the battle-lust wearing off, he was almost ashamed how undisciplined his hits had been. He'd have been out of line with a trainee, he was certainly out of line with a mage and he was definitely out of line with the Inquisitor. He'd been reckless, careless. Cassandra would kill him.

"And I hurt you. That's kind of the point," she replied with a lazy grin, propping herself up on an elbow and pointing at the distinct marks on his arms. He could feel a dozen similar injuries scattered all over him, and already some were starting to stiffen.

"Don't you play a little rough for a mage?" he asked, resting his hands on his knees. She didn't look remotely bothered at being thrown around like a rag doll, but that didn't mean wasn't guilty about it. Wren merely shrugged, like she got into over-zealous sparring matches on a regular basis. Rising to his feet, he offered her his hand; a measure of civility that would not have gone amiss five minutes ago. Hauling her upright was easy, it was a wonder he hadn't crushed her. Despite her negligible weight, his shoulder still twinged painfully from where he was convinced she'd done a good job of trying to dislocate it.

"How can someone so small do so much damage?" he remarked with a small chuckle, while she bent to retrieve the discarded staff. "Who taught you to fight like that?"

Wren turned back to him with a wry smile. "Not the Creators."

Cullen watched her as she paid even less heed to making herself presentable than he had, wondering where on earth such a little person had managed to get into brawls like this before. Her hits hadn't been controlled, and he knew she could have, he'd seen it. Her her morning trainings were all about precision. She'd been playing rough on purpose. Worse, she'd enjoyed it.

"I did learn something though, Commander," Wren said, leaning in his direction while a cheeky grin pulled at the corners of her mouth. "I think you need to practice your footwork. The war table's been making you soft."

"Is that so?" he replied, mirroring her smirk and stepping closer to loom over her. She wasn't wholly wrong, but that was besides the point. "I think you need to work on your stamina. Wildfire burns itself out quickly: all speed, no pace."

She laughed then. "And you'd know all about stamina, Commander?" Her eyes were dancing, laughing at him, flecked with rust and gold while the rest of her face played demure. "You'll have to teach me."

Cullen raised an eyebrow, not backing down even as their faces were inches apart. He could have counted each freckle dotting her nose and cheeks, and even those hiding on her tapered ears as she peered up at him. This was just like the sparring session: she liked to push. She was doing it on purpose. He would not yield. "I _have_ to? And just how are you going to make me?"

The elf smiled knowingly like she'd just won something, not been thoroughly bested and pinned down for her arrogance. Abruptly Wren dropped from his line of sight - Cullen hadn't realised she had been standing on her toes - and turned on her heel to retrieve the cloak she'd discarded earlier.

"Same time tomorrow then." She smirked at him over her shoulder. It wasn't a question.

"Tomorrow," he agreed, wondering at the logic of it all. He would be very sore the next morning. With any luck, his overly enthusiastic participation would keep her in her chambers, and he could sleep through the morning. Wren was right - he was getting soft.

"I have something for that," she offered, as he rolled his shoulder experimentally.

Cullen grimaced immediately. "It's fine."

"I wasn't talking about magic," she replied with a laugh. "But suit yourself."

Wren turned to leave, to skip back to her tower and collect a clean change of clothes and run a hot bath no doubt. He'd need to do the same to make himself presentable again. Questions would be ask if any of the other members of the Inquisition found him in this state.

"Oh, and Commander?"

He paused as she stood half turned, lips quirked playfully while she waited for his full attention.

"Where I come from, mages like playing rough."


	6. Checkmate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chess matches are somewhat more complicated than they may seem.

"What are you doing?"  
  
Wren had materialised behind them, making Cullen jump in surprise. She must have been standing here for a while, and if the magister had noticed he'd made no comment.  
  
"This is chess, elf," said the mage, waving a hand at the chessboard, set up with elegantly carved pieces. "It is a game of war and strategy."  
  
"How do you play?" she asked, leaning over Cullen's shoulder to get a closer look. The woman truly had no sense of personal space, and Cullen thought he saw Dorian's moustache twitch in amusement. Next thing they knew she'd been climbing over his shoulders: Cullen wouldn't put it past her. She really was like a bird, wanting to perch on everything.  
  
"Well, the winner is the one who captures their opponent's King," replied Cullen, pointing out the piece on the board.  
  
"Why not the queen?" she asked, her hair once again brushing against his shoulder and tickling his ear. He caught a hint of her perfume again, and he still couldn't quite place the scent: something almost sweet and tangy. He hadn't known the Dalish even wore perfume.  
  
"The king needs protecting," replied Dorian with a smirk, "The queen's the most powerful piece on the board."  
  
"Oh." This seemed to please her a great deal, and she slunk around Cullen's seat to come and sit cross legged beside the low table so it was at her eye level. Leaning back against the Commander's legs, she settled down to learn the rules while the match continued.

It turned out the Inquisitor picked up the game rather quickly. He should not have been surprised: she'd already demonstrated a quick wit and a quick tongue, and she had a mind for tactics, though he would have been loathe to admit it a few week previous. The challenge itself seemed to keep her coming back: sometimes she'd play with Dorian, sometimes she played with Cullen himself. It was probably embarrassing how quickly she got very good at it, first she'd win half the games, then three quarters. He was supposed to be the war strategist, and he'd been playing since he was a child. Tell that to the clever elf though.  
  
"Checkmate," Wren said with some satisfaction, grinning widely. The tips of her ears perked upright, and he could almost see her cataloging his moves and strategies for next time. This was half his problem: her capacity to store information was truly prodigious.  
  
"The victory is yours. Again," he admitted with a smirk, flicking over his king with a finger. She was too good at this, hopefully Cassandra never found out or he'd be out of a job. The magister had been having similar problems, and both men admitted her skill. They'd even pooled resources in the hopes of besting her more times than she did them, but thus far it was still a hopeless case. It reminded him of the times he and his brother had tried to best his sister at the game. He smiled at the thought, wondering whether his sister or the elven mage would win in a game.  
  
"My sister taught me to play you know. She was very good, almost always won. Took me weeks of practice to beat her. You should have seen her face when I finally got her."  
  
By now he normally would reset the board: their games rarely took more than twenty minutes a piece, but she leaned forward, curious.  
  
"Your sister?"  
  
"Yes," he smiled, the game pieces forgotten. "She looked so shocked. I haven't seen her or my family since I joined the Order or the Inquisition. You'd get along, I think."  
  
She cocked her head, sending half her hair spilling over her shoulders. "Do you think we'll be close enough for a visit in our travels?"  
  
He leaned back in his seat thoughtfully. "Perhaps. It would be good to know they're safe, to see them again."  
  
The Inquisitor hummed in agreement. If there was anyone who'd understand homesickness, it would be her. It had hardly been her choice to be sucked into the Breach, and this whole mess.  
  
"I'd like to meet them," she said, offering a warm smile. "Maybe challenge them to a game of chess."  
  
Cullen laughed. "I'd like to see that." If only his family could see him now, playing chess with not one but two mages on a regular basis while the world fell apart. It seemed surreal, yet here they were. It was one of the few times he could forget his duties, his responsibilities; a welcome reprieve.  
  
His victory was long in coming. The game had drawn itself out more than it usually did. Pawns fell to the swift mercy of sisters, and pieces were exchanged for others. It was the most complex by far of their matches: the Inquisitor had been unable to corner him early like she usually did, and he'd captured her queen, until she exchanged it for her last remaining pawn at his end of the board. By now he knew her tells, her ears alone gave away a great deal of her mood he'd discovered and now they were perked, confident. Three more moves in and one of her chevaliers fell, and her ears levelled again, then turned downward while her brows knotted. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees while she hovered over the board, eyes flicking back and forth between the tiles. There was the tiniest smirk playing at his lips. Perhaps it was cocky, but the end was approaching. He had her.  
  
"I think that's checkmate, Inquisitor."  
  
She glared at the pieces for a few moments more before admitting defeat.  
  
"I think you may be right."  
  
A grin spread slowly across her features and her brows smoothed themselves out. A laugh bubbled in her chest and finally escaped, bouncing of the pillars and mirrored in her eyes. It was infectious. Eventually she stilled, offering him a warm smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes.  
  
"Well played, Commander."  
  
It was different from when he'd beaten his sister, or even the Tevinter mage. There was no look of disgruntled defeat or the slight shock of losing. The inquisitor's mouth quirked, the tips of her ears were flushed and she looked almost invigorated. It reminded him of their morning training sessions. She certainly didn't look beaten. And yet, it was still very satisfying.  
  
"At least try to look a little put out." he said, quirking an eyebrow she propped her chin on a palm.  
  
Wren pouted, her ears drooped and did a good impression of a kicked puppy were it not for her eyes still dancing with mirth. The corner of her mouth twitched, as though it wrestled not to smile.  
  
"Is this more what you had in mind, Commander?" she asked, blinking up at him through baeful eyelashes.  
  
"Mmm," he hummed, grinning as he lounged back in his seat and propped one foot against an armrest, like it was a throne and he was lording it over her. "Something like that."  
  
The pout slipped and her sly smirk returned, dimpling her freckled cheeks. She dropped her eyes to the board again, poking at one of the pieces with a slender finger, wholly too innocent. She looked up at him, watching, waiting. Her ears wiggled. "I'll keep that in mind for the next time I let you win."  
  
Cullen's grin dropped for a moment and he stilled, throwing her a suspicious look while she peeked out at him from behind a veil of hair.  
  
"No," he insisted, leaning forward as well so they were almost eye to eye. He scrutinized her, surely after weeks of reading her expressions he could tell when she was lying. "I'll not fall for your tricks, I won that fair and square."  
  
"As you say, Commander," she hummed, her expression coy as she gently tucked her straying hair behind an ear. She still toyed with his king in her hand, turning it over in her fingers. "Care for another?"

Cullen watched her for another moment, and she seemed more than content to wait for him, but he had no way of knowing if she was telling the truth or lying to save face. Well, he did know one way...

"Another." 


	7. Lyrium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention there would be angst? Because there's angst.
> 
> Elvish translations:  
> "Ma'eth sahlin, da'len. Ma'eth. Sal'arla emma." - You're safe, little one. You're safe. Come back/home to me.  
> "Lethallin" - candid Dalish endearment, akin to 'clansman'  
> "Da'len" - term of fond endearment, literally 'little child'

The sickness crept up on him. Slow, insidious, he didn't it coming until it was too late. He didn't want to see. First, Cullen would find himself in rooms without memory of how he'd got there, or why he'd come. Then there were the headaches that not even Vivienne's tinctures could shake, even if he pretended they did. He'd wake up some mornings so unwell he was confined to his room, willing that no one would come looking for him. None of it scared him like the lucid dreams he could feel threatening to overtake his conscious mind. He'd wake in cold sweats, clawing at his skin to rid himself of the blood that wasn't really there. He told no one. They were only dreams. They were not real.

Despite his efforts, it was becoming increasingly difficult to hide away his weakness, he was certain he'd seen the others giving him sideways glances in the war councils, as they passed in corridors. He didn't want their pity. Couldn't waver in his resolve. He would stay strong.

He barely heard the conversations in the food hall, offering the barest of intelligible responses when others talked to him. He needed to do something, be somewhere, he couldn't remember. He took another of Vivienne's concoctions with a grimace, and the incessant whine in his ears subsided, allowed him to think a little clearer. Missives, reports, inventories. The newly returned intelligence waiting for him in his tower. That was what he needed to do. The room only spun slightly as he walked away, and he hoped he wouldn't regret mindlessly downing the porridge that had been shoved in front of him. He didn't want to have to ask for something for his nausea as well.

Cullen navigated the twisting hallways on instinct more than knowledge of where he was actually going, passing out onto the battlements that provided the swiftest route to his office. His chest felt tight, and he wondered if he'd mistakenly cinched his armour wrong that morning. The whine had returned, growing in intensity until he could swear he saw his vision swimming before him. His head threatened to explode under the sudden pressure and he stumbled against the stone wall, clutching his temple. The world erupted in shades of purple and darkness, consuming him as screams echoed shrilly in his ears.

  
She'd been distracted by Sera and Varric's increasingly outlandish tales over breakfast, only occasionally glancing in the direction of the Commander staring stony faced into his bowl. The loud antics and conversation never really interested him so it hadn't bothered her much, but even by his standard's he'd been more reserved of late. He hadn't come down to join her for her morning trainings, and their chess matches had become few and far between. She'd always win, even when she tried to let him get ahead. Wren cast a few more furtive looks his way, finally watching as he exchanged a few terse words with Vivienne for what looked like a potion bottle before exiting the room without another word. Wren frowned after him, and tried to go back to the booming laughter coming from the group and her now luke warm porridge. It did no good.

She stood and inquired after the Commander with the Orlesian mage, further worried by his need for migraine potions. She knew he hated magic, but surely if this was becoming an increasingly regular occurrence someone with healing talent ought to look at it. At the very least, she knew of a few good recipes that she bet Vivienne hadn't tried, even though she'd never say as much to the enchanter. The fact that the commander hadn't come to her or Solas first was more concerning. Didn't he trust her?

Striding off away from the hall, she made a beeline for his tower, determined to get to the bottom of it, until she rounded a corner and saw him kneeling on the battlements.

"Commander?'

There was no response, and his whole body was trembling, his arms clutching at the wall were the only thing upright. She moved toward him and her stomach dropped, fearing the worst.

"Cullen!"

His head jerked in her direction, but he didn't look at her. Instead her rocked slightly in place, staring blankly at the stone.

"Leave me be. I will stay strong. Stay strong..."

His words trailed off as she reached him, hand already glowing with magical energy. It was not a stray arrow that had taken him. thank the Creators, but something else held him with ruthless force. His eyes swivelled and he shrunk back from her when he saw her hand.

"Get back demon, I'll not fall for your treachery!"

She stopped in her tracks, dropping her arms in a non-threatening gesture and immediately released her hold on the spell. The wild look left his eyes, but he went back to muttering over and over again. It was a prayer, she realised. She'd only heard a little of what he'd gone through during the Blight in the Ferelden Circle. The subject was always met with averted gazes and quickly changed topics, but she knew enough to understand the memory that held him.

"Cullen?" she asked softly, taking a tentative step forward. He didn't shrink back this time, eyes glazed over and unseeing. She continued to creep forward, pausing after each step until she stood beside him. Though her first instinct was to reach out and comfort him, she held back, just as she would a trapped animal in pain and stood there momentarily a loss for what to do. This was not something her powers could heal, there was no thorn to remove, no snare to release. The horror written on his face chilled her to the bone, but there was no one around to signal for help, not that she thought anyone would be able to help him like this. His gaze was focussed inward, still whispering over and over.

"Maker have mercy. Make it stop. Please, please. Have mercy."

Unsure if he was actually talking to her or not, she hushed him with gentle cooing noises, taking his eventual silence as a good sign that he at least perceived her presence. This was well beyond her power - any of her power - to heal and it scared her.

"Ma'eth sahlin, da'len. Ma'eth. Sal'arla emma," she murmured, knowing that the words wouldn't matter to him now anyway. "Please."

He still rocked in place, muscles locked and trembling and she desperately grasped for something, anything that might help him break free. She began to sing, softly at first, remembering how he'd remarked on the song as she'd sung it in the tavern one night. Anything to bring back that memory. Any memory but this. She continued the lullabye, repeating the three short verses over and over again. Slowly, the trembling in his limbs abated and he stilled. She held her breath, the last note trembling slightly on her tongue, praying that the hallucination had released him at last.

Without warning his grip on the wall slipped and he'd wrapped his arms around her waist, nearly taking her to the ground with him. Momentarily shocked, she regained her balance and froze. He clung to her as though she were the only thing that anchored him to the earth, bowing his head against her hip. Slowly she lowered her hands, unsure of what to do with them, tentatively wrapping them around his shoulders. All the while she sung, until the elvish began to blur together, even to her.

Finally after what seemed an age, his breathing slowed and he dropped his hands, drawing back to rest on his knees. Silent tears stained his cheeks, and she held her breath afraid to move in case everything might shatter again.

"Lethallin?" she murmured, breaking the silence. His gaze was cast downward, but his eyes no longer held the glazed, unfocussed quality they'd had. "Cullen?"

His shoulders heaved as he drew a shuddering breath, moving to stand on one knee, then rising to his full, imposing height. Somehow despite this he seemed smaller, and it terrified her.

"Perhaps we should get you to the healers... or your quarters," she murmured, watching his face darken when she mentioned getting other help. Her healing skills had always lain with more immediate, physical ailments. The Keeper had been much better at lingering illnesses and someone better qualified should really look at him, but she wouldn't take that choice away from him unless she thought he was truly endangering himself. He set off with a look of determination, but his footsteps were wavering and laboured as Wren trailed at his side in silence.

She closed the door with a gentle click, wondering if she was doing the right thing. She didn't feel comfortable leaving him alone, fearing he might fall back into visions again, but at the same time she could almost physically feel his need to be alone it was so palpable. Wren wanted to help him, but she didn't know how. She didn't know if anyone else would either: if the visions were lyrium induced, Cassandra might, but Cullen would not want her help, and he would not thank her for asking. It wasn't her place. She'd have to take comfort in that he hadn't forbade her return, and try to help him until he was ready to find it elsewhere.

She hurried to the gardens inside the keep's walls, darting about collecting herbs and bark that would hopefully soothe his pain, and maybe alleviate his symptoms. She could only hope and guess from her own experience with the hallucinations of her youth, and looking at the jumbled collection in the hastily grabbed satchel it would have to do. Taking the steps two at a time and actually climbing over barrels to dash across the rooftops to aid her flight, she dropped to the stone outside his tower and entered cautiously, scaling the ladder to his bedchamber. Her head peeked uncertainly over the edge, the tips of her ears twitching.

"Cullen?"

"Come in."

She clambered up the remaining rungs, hoisting herself into the tower room. He was much as she'd left him half an hour ago, hunched over in his chair by the fire and still drenched in sweat. His face was drained and pale, making it look like he hadn't slept in weeks. Wren moved carefully, scared of making a move that might trigger another episode, setting her ingredients down and collecting a pot to boil water over the simmering coals, tossing in this and that to infuse into the mixture. She cast furtive glances at him while she worked, or stirred the pot absently though it didn't need it. He didn't look at her the whole time, eyes hooded and staring at nothing while a hand cradled his temple. Her mouth set in a hard line; at least she could fix the headache.

Deeming the concoction ready, she found a cup that didn't really look all that clean on the mantle and poured some, avoiding the floating ingredients still moving about.

"Drink this," she instructed quietly, standing and moving to hold the drink out to him. He took it, careful to avoid brushing her fingers and swirled the amber liquid absently, sniffing it.

"What is it?"

"It'll make your headache go away," Wren replied, searching his face. Images of his earlier expression still haunted her. "It's not magic. Just bark." His hand stilled for a moment, his whole body going rigid, then he relaxed, taking a sip of the potion.

Relieved but still anxious, she waivered there, wringing her hands despite knowing that nothing she gave him would be a quick fix. He took another long drought, sighing his appreciation.

"Did you want something else?"

He took a moment before replying. "No, thank you."

"Do you want to sleep?" She had the herbs that would make for a powerful sleeping potion if that was what he wanted.

His face darkened for a moment. "No."

The elf hovered, caught in indecision once again about leaving him here alone. Something about seeing him like this was too personal, too intimate, and it made her feel like she were intruding. She would have left in a heartbeat if she was certain he would be safe, but she wasn't so sure that leaving him alone with his thoughts was for the best either.

Clearing her throat, Wren gathered her ingredients into the leather pack and hung it by the fire. "Well, just send for someone if you need anything. I think I'll leave these here just in case, that tea will keep for a while if you think you need more. Just don't drink the whole thing or you'll knock yourself out. And again, if there's anything-"

She'd made to move around the high backed armchair, when he caught her wrist. "Wait."

Startled, Wren paused. His grip wasn't rough, but it was firm, filled with more tension than his posture let on.

"Don't go. Stay. Please."

She blinked, uncertain of how to proceed, his desperate tone had caught her off-guard. "Alright. I'm not going anywhere."

He dropped his grip but didn't look up, hunched over in the chair still wearing his armour. Cautiously she moved to sit crosslegged by the remnants of the fire opposite him, desperately wishing she knew what she could do to help. The tea would take away some of the physical pain, but beyond that... Everything about him looked fragile, even as he sat there still clad in gleaming ceremonial garb, as though he might shatter and break apart at any moment. Silence hung heavy about them for a minute, then two, and her need to fill it with words was growing by the second. But what could she say?

"Would you sing?" he asked hesitantly, looking up at her at last. His eyes were bloodshot, but they were focused. "What you were singing... before?"

Wren nodded wordlessly, clearing her throat and murmuring the first few words, suddenly abashed. She sang and hummed almost everywhere she went, even during battle, but the request caught her by surprise. He watched her for a few moments more, before reaching for a buckle on his shoulder to remove the dark furs that always rode there. Discarding them over the back of his chair, he shoved off the bulkier metal pauldrons with a frown that made his nose crinkle, before discarding those too onto the floor beside him. He sighed and dropped his arms, as though the task had required some great effort, before standing and unfolding his crumpled body into something more like the man she knew. He strode purposefully across the room, shedding the lush garb and armour like a second skin, returning in the loose tunic beneath not as a Commander of armies, but as Cullen.

"You have a beautiful voice," he murmured, sinking back down into the chair's contours so the swallowed him again. Heat rose to the tips of her ears, and she looked away. "What is it called?"

"Suledin," she replied quietly, not trusting herself to look up at him. Compliments were not something she was used to receiving, certainly not from him. "In your tongue, it means endure."

Cullen was quiet at that, resting his head in his hands as he looked at the smoldering coals. Wren was quietly glad he wasn't looking at her instead; the intensity in his gaze was intimidating. Cautiously, she ventured the question that had been hanging unspoken since she'd come across him on the battlements.

"It's the lyrium, isn't it?"

He nodded, dropping his eyes and shifting his shoulders as though the very mention of it made him uncomfortable.

"You've tried to get off it before?" she asked, curious but wary of overstepping whatever precious trust she'd garnered.

"Many times, since I left the order," he replied, not meeting her gaze. He was ashamed, she realised.

"Are the withdrawals always this bad for everyone?"

His laugh was humourless. "I never really saw too many that tried to quit, but you'd find some that were captured -by bandits or apostates it made no difference- and were locked up for weeks, for months. It was never pretty. It only got worse the longer they'd been taking it."

"And how long were you in the order?" she asked, again tentative, not wanting to probe directly.

"I was very young," he replied. "Barely a man. The lyrium, it makes you forget everything eventually. Eats away at you from the inside. I don't want them to have that control over me, don't want it to control me like that."

She didn't know what to say. It was evident that the fate that awaited him, possibly sooner rather than later, scared him. But the strength it would take for him to quit it for good, if these visions were anything to go by...

"Sometimes," he murmured, so quiet she could barely hear him. "I think it wouldn't be so bad to forget."

Wren was quiet for some time, letting the words hang in the air. It deserved to, a confession like that. It was so deeply personal, so significant she could feel the weight of it as though she could hold it in her hands.  
  
"It's never better to forget," she murmured quietly, and Cullen looked up at her as her tone changed. For the first time since he'd met her, she looked sad. "Watching them fade away, it's the worst thing in the world. The memories might hurt, but you won't realise what you've lost until they fade away and there's nothing left. Just the memory of a memory."  
  
"I don't want to remember," he said, looking down at his palms helplessly. "But I don't want to forget."  
  
"I know," she murmured, offering a smile that still couldn't chase the melancholy from her eyes. He returned it, a weak and brittle impression of what it once was. There were many things left unsaid, things that needed to be said, but for now, it was enough. Her eyes wandered to the ornate chessboard propped against the wall.  
  
"Care for a game, Commander?"  
  
Cullen followed her gaze, and a true smile did surface. He rose to retrieve the board and pieces, setting them down on the hearth. They sat in front of the dying fire and played, and it didn't matter who won. It was enough.


	8. Staff and Blade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Religion, culture and pet names. Wren and Cullen get wet.

In the weeks following the incident on the battlements, Cullen slowly recovered. The dreams became infrequent, then rare. They did not disappear completely, but they were manageable. The headaches went, the cold sweats and tremors with them and he felt stronger again. Wren encouraged him in her own way, bringing him books from the library she thought he might like, bringing him snacks from the kitchen, helping him with more of her medicinal teas. She never broached any subject that he didn't start, and it was nice. Despite the thoughtful gestures, she didn't treat him any differently, happily slipping back into the rapport they'd built before his withdrawals. She didn't mention it to any of the other members of the Inqiusition, didn't push him to either, and he was grateful.

Perhaps most important were the training sessions he still attended. There was always something to be said for the certainty of a workout, the feeling of moving toward something. The Inquisitor's methods offered new insight that he was always willing to explore; sometimes she'd insist they sit for ages, cross legged on the bare earth or pulling strange poses to stretch and strengthen muscles seldom used. She even brought him a training staff similar to hers one morning, and despite his apprehension she explained it was more about maintaining balance than preparing to cast spells. In exchange, he'd brought a pair of wooden swords the next day with a grin. To her credit, Wren had accepted the challenge with grace and enthusiasm, mentioning something about every experience being an asset.  
  
Other times, like this, they'd simply run through drills. Mindless, cathartic, companionable. Sometimes they'd say nothing at all the entire time, others though...  
  
"Is this a Dalish custom too?"  
  
Cullen moved through his defensive positions, something that had become so wired into his very being it was like breathing. He'd expanded his repertoire over the years, running through different sets for different enemies. It was different when defending against a two handed warrior, or a rogue's quick jabs. He had to be ready for that, even if his new duties kept him confined to his office more than the battlefield. He'd added 'battle mage' to the list much more recently, or as the elf preferred to call it, arcane warrior. There was magic dissipating effects to consider, as well as the possibility of being stabbed with a very lethal, very sharp battlestaff that was more akin to a scythe than a stick. If the woman who wielded it did not strike immediate fear into the hearts of the enemy, the staff certainly would.

"Not everything I do is Dalish tradition, you know," She paused only briefly to consider him, meeting his gaze with a wry smile before continuing in her exercises. "Yes and no."

"Care to elaborate?"

He thought he saw the ghost of a smile as she twirled by, planting her staff solidly as she blocked an imagined enemy. "I have no way of knowing whether this was practiced by my ancestors. I only know that here I follow Andruil's teaching."

"Who is Andruil?" he asked. If she was bothered by his pestering, she didn't comment on it, instead blowing a stray lock of hair out of her face. It had become stuck to the sheen of sweat, and she had to break her momentum to remove it.

"She is the goddess of the hunt. I used to meditate on Vir Tanadhal, the Way of the Hunt, and sought to further implement her teachings into my sessions. This is the result."

"I thought you said Mythal was your goddess?" From his tone she did not think he meant offense by the question. In truth, Wren was impressed he'd remembered the conversation in such detail. Given his Chantry upbringing, she'd half expected him to never broach the subject again.

"Mythal is my chosen goddess yes, however as a First it is -was- my duty to worship all gods. Each have important teachings to offer that will better provide wisdom and balance. You have your Maker and the prophet Andraste, is it so hard to imagine worship extends to nine deities?"  
  
"Perhaps not," he agreed with a chuckle, hefting the practice blade over his shoulder to block a blow from behind. "You take no issue with my worship of the Maker?"

"Why should I? Your Maker did not order the destruction of my people's land, culture or our freedoms, nor did Andraste. That blame continues to lie with your Chantry, with whom I do take considerable issue."  
  
The sharpness in her normally serene voice gave him pause, and he stopped to look at her. She made a rather vicious jab at nothing to accentuate her point. "They believe that what they are doing is right."

"But that does not make it so. Belief is a powerful thing," She did stop this time, abrupt and staccato as her hair whirled to a swinging halt. She met his eyes unerringly, an unspoken challenge written there. "What do you believe, Cullen?"  
  
The Commander swallowed. There was a right and wrong answer to that question. "I believe in redemption."  
  
The sound of her laughter told him he at least hadn't failed.

"Hold onto that thought, da'len," she grinned, returning to her movements with less tension than before. "We're going to need it."

Cullen let out a steady breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding and absently ran through another set, still watching her out of the corner of his eye. "So you made all this up on your own?"

Wren laughed again, whirling the staff in a dizzying pattern, planting it so she could lean on it and watch him. "Culture and tradition aren't set in stone. Someone had to create them in the first place, the gods cannot do it for us. Even if our culture remained intact, it shouldn't prevent the exploration the gods' teachings."  
  
"Tell me of these teachings then," he smirked, flicking his wrist in a move that would wrench the sword from an opponent's hand. "Vir Tandal, the Way of the Hunt."

"Vir Tanadhal," she corrected, her laughter only becoming louder when he clumsily tried to imitate it a second time. "Close enough, lethallin, you'll hurt yourself."

"More accurately, Vir Tanadhal is the way of three trees, and as such has three central concepts. The first, Vir Assan, is the way of the arrow: fly straight and do not waver. It is as much about discipline and accuracy as it is about preventing cruelty for those that you hunt." She executed a flurry of moves that would have unbalanced, winded, broken bones and probably knocked an armoured soldier out cold, in that order.

"And the others?"

"Vir Bor'assan, the way of the bow, to bend and never break. Vir Adahlen, the way of the forest, there is strength in unity."

"Well, the way of the bow certainly explains your stretches-"

She spun closer and aimed her staff at his side in a playful blow, but he caught it on his sword before it reached him. The blow should have caught him by surprise.

Slowly a smirk spread across his face as he leaned down, just a little. "You're slacking."  
  
"You're distracted enough to notice," the elf countered, sly as a fox.

They stood frozen like that for a few moments before slowly breaking away without another word. Cullen cast a glance at her over his shoulder while she went back to her drills, neither of their attentions fully on their task. Another minute passed without word or incident, before without warning the elven mage aimed her staff in his direction again, stopping inches from his chest. Cullen only smiled, looking down at her knowingly.

He didn't move. He didn't even flinch. "You don't scare me, Little Bird."

The name had an immediate effect. Wren lowered the staff, taking a step back."Little bird is it?"

Her tone wasn't disapproving, but he didn't like the dangerous glint in her eye as she advanced on him. She raised her left palm, and the water from one of the nearby troughs rose into the air.

"Am I your Little Bird, Commander?"

"Now Little Bird, what are you- no-" Cullen raised his palms in front of him in surrender and the sword dropped to the ground with a dull thud. Wren continued to advance, smiling the whole time as the shimmering ball of liquid hovered ominously. "Wren - just wait a second - Inquisitor-"

The ball of water broke, drenching him from head to foot. The cold bit at his skin, and his clothes clung to him, constricting and sapping the heat from him. He could feel the hairs of his arms raise with gooseflesh as he began to shiver.

"Wren," he said, looking down at himself in dismay. She didn't seem nearly so fussed, sending her laughter echoing off the walls. Cullen shook a few stray droplets off his arms, only for more to collect moments later.

" _Wren_ ," he said again, his voice lower as he turned his gaze on her.

The elf squealed and danced out of his reach when he made a lunge at her. She was much quicker than him, they both knew that, and his chances of ever getting close were slim. The only thing he caught was her laughter as it rang out through the courtyard, her hair flashing in the morning sun.

Suddenly, another ball of water appeared above her and broke with a loud woosh. The Inquisitor came to a screeching halt, looking down at herself in disbelief, shaking her now drenched clothes. Both she and Cullen looked around for the culprit, spotting the Tevinter mage easily as he leant against the battlements above, watching on. He waved at them both.

"You're welcome!"

Cullen saluted him as the mage bowed and made a hasty retreat before Wren could cast a spell in retaliation. Just as well, Cassandra would be ropable to hear of any arcane battles within the walls. Cullen had no desire to be caught between such a conflict either. They were left instead in the tranquility of the courtyard, soaked to the skin.

"Well," said Cullen, "Saves having a bath, anyway."

"Getting drenched was a lot more fun back home," Wren muttered, rubbing her arms. "It was actually warm there. When we went hunting, we used to hang our clothes out to dry after a rainstorm when we were away from the clan, like fruit from a tree."

"You had others, I hope," he said, despite the answer being written across her face.

Wren offered him a wicked grin. "Those were wet too."

She had to be faring worse than him, as the water only accentuated her tiny frame. It was still hard to imagine someone so small could do any damage at all, but by now he knew better, and had healing bruises to prove it. The fabric clung everywhere, and he tried not to look, suctioning his sopping shirt off and wringing it out so the excess water splashed messily onto the ground. The elf on the other hand seemed to have no such reservations, and he did a double take when he caught her giving him the most curious look. Her head was tilted to the side slightly, and she wasn't smiling anymore, her mouth instead making an 'o' shape.

"What?"

She blinked a couple of times, before returning her gaze to face. "Oh. Nothing. Your hair is curly."

He cleared his throat and patted his hair down self consciously, knowing that's exactly what it did when any moisture got near it. "Yes. I should probably be going. Reports won't write themselves."

"Probably," she agreed absently as he made a hasty retreat.

"Cullen," she called out after a few steps, and he paused, looking back over his shoulder. "You forgot your sword."

"Ah."

He turned to retrieve what had become his practice sword from her, clumsily brushing her fingers as he reached for it. Her gaze dropped lower for just a second before returning to his face. Cullen felt the heat rushing to his ears. Before it could colour his cheeks, Wren smiled and turned back to retrieve her staff from the ground. She called back to him over her shoulder with what might have been a wink.

"Dareth shiral, Commander,"


	9. Not On My Table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra calls a team meeting, Cullen is distracted.

It seemed with each passing day he'd find some other aspect of her to occupy his mind, distract him from the task at hand. Today, it was her lips, always in motion whether she was talking or smiling or pulling a face. She was expressive in general, far more so than he, but her lips especially so.

Members of the Inquisition were still gathering in the war room, but both Wren and Cullen were early as usual, along with the ever prompt Cassandra. They'd be lucky to see the Bull or Varric before noon. He had a feeling that Cassandra wanted to get right along with things, stragglers be damned, but she caged her impatience for the time being, choosing instead to pace around the room. Cullen didn't mind, his attention was on Wren as she braided and unbraided her hair. Her brows were knotted uncharacteristically, her tongue caught between her lips in concentration. He'd assumed when they'd first met that her hairstyle was something favoured by the Dalish, her asymmetrical braid encompassing only half her hair while the rest hung free. Increasingly, he was beginning to realise that she couldn't get the other side even, no matter what she tried.

He watched, leaning a hip absently against the side of the sturdy wooden table as her fingers worked between the strands of copper hair, and she tried to feel if she was getting everything. Her tongue ran over her lips, and he found himself mirroring the movement. Her lips looked soft, and he wondered whether, with how many she ate, they would taste like strawberries-

"You'd think a civil war and impending doom would inspire punctuality."

He exhaled and straightened up, clearing his throat and grunting something in agreement as Cassandra's voice interrupted that line of thought rather abruptly. Wren had started humming to herself, another of her Dalish hymns no doubt. He was also beginning to wonder whether she simply made them up on the spot - she rarely added words to any of her tunes, and they could mean anything. Deft little fingers tugged at the right braid roughly, teasing it free and tousling it, leaving it to hang free as usual. If he knew anything about braiding hair, he could have offered to help. A ridiculous farce it would have been, and a ridiculous thought. This was truly getting out of hand.

Sera came trotting in, announcing her arrival with a pronounced yawn complete with exaggerated waving of her arms. She stretched like a cat, and he had no trouble thinking she'd like to curl up in the patch of sunlight next to Wren and fall asleep. The two exchanged knowing grins, and it was probably a good thing that Bull likely wouldn't make it for the meeting. It would do nothing to improve the Seeker's mood.

"Reporting for duty," said Sera, marching up to Cassandra and saluting: as comical as she'd intended it to be, only enhanced by the stark height difference.

Cassandra scowled with enough force to wilt flowers. "At least that makes one of you."

Wren danced over to join the trio, wedging herself between him and Sera to hoist herself onto the table's edge in one smooth motion, leaving her legs dangling. He watched her lock and unlock her ankles, swinging them in time with the faint tune she'd started up again under her breath.

"Hey, not on my table!"

She blinked at him, surprised at the slight delay in his reprimand, but only smiled coyly. "What? You weren't using it."

"You're sitting on Orlais," he said indignantly, gesturing at the map and the pieces she'd displaced to make room. It had sounded better in his head.

"I'm sure Orlais doesn't mind."

He held her gaze, she daring him to push it further. She was laughing at him with her eyes. He on the other hand was assaulted with the sudden image of her with her back pressed into the Anderfels, her hair spilling across the Donarks as she pulled him with her...

"Alright, alright we're here," grumbled Varric as he entered the room followed by the Tevinter mage who looked as though he might have literally been dragged out of his bedchamber by a very insistent Leiliana who trailed quietly after them. Cassandra muttered something that could have been 'About bloody time,' but Cullen wasn't really paying attention. Wren was still smirking at him as though she could read his thoughts, which he was certain was beyond even her powers. He hoped. She even went so far as to knock against his knees with her ankles, and his hand brushed against her arm as he shifted in place.

"Cat got your tongue, Commander?" she murmured, leaning in closer so she could whisper it in his ear.

Maker, don't mention tongues. This was going to be a long meeting.

 


	10. Battlescars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bar brawls and alcohol lead to interesting places.

The horn sounded loud over the valley announcing their return.  
  
Scores of horses marched wearily through the gate, with other more exotic mounts scattered amongst them. Eventually there was a brief lull, before a dark skeletal horse and lone rider came trotting through. You might have even said the beast had a handsome, elastic stride had you not been distracted by the macabre sword shoved through its skull. The woman perched on its bony back was not adorned in mud encrusted armor, but leather travelling pants and only a small breastplate to protect her vitals. She held a bladed staff aloft, and for once her unruly mane of hair was left to flow free on both sides.

The Inquisitor returned victorious, having captured the fortress that had plagued them with attacks in their camps for months. They'd gained new territory, and in doing so ensured the safety of their outposts. It was a huge step forward.

She spent much of the day writing reports, sitting in on meetings she only half payed attention to and spending a great deal of time in the bath chamber to wash the mud and dirt from her skin, and chase the chill from her bones. The water might have gone cold a lot sooner for anyone else, but magic was a gift sometimes. She was on her way back to her room, the ends of her hair still dripping when she ran into the Commander. His eyes only traced the still damp tips of her hair and the moisture clinging to her neck for a second before returning to her face.

"Inquisitor," he said in greeting, inclining his head. "I've been told there is to be a celebration of your victories in the tavern tonight."

She grinned at his tone. Told by Bull and Sera no doubt. "Is that so? You'll be attending then, Commander."

He opened his mouth to protest. Cullen was a notorious recluse from social gatherings, preferring instead the company of his missives and library. She could appreciate the desire for solitude herself, but she had no intention of letting him off this time.

"I had not been planning-"

She merely raised an eyebrow, which cut him off. "And abandon your troops? It will be good for morale."

"...As you say, Inquisitor."  
  
The tavern was packed to bursting. Soldiers were crammed onto anything that resembled a seat, and the ale was flowing thick and fast. The more senior members of the Inquisition shouldn't have been indulging too enthusiastically, Vivienne had reminded them that they left for the Orlesian villa the next morning, bright and _early_. This hadn't stopped Bull and Blackwall getting into a drinking contest, and Varric trying to talk everyone into a game of Wicked Grace; a much modified version that involved a lot less clothing no doubt. Cullen watched on from his seat, happy enough to simply be an observer in the conversation and laughter. Wren appeared to be enjoying herself, laughing heartily with Sera and Varric, who tweaked an ear affectionately. He nursed his tankard thoughtfully, which was not his first much to his chagrin, letting the pleasant buzz lull him into a sense of warm security.

Wren danced away, weaving through the mass of bodies to go and retrieve more drinks for some of the companions. She was such a tiny creature Cullen wondered at that wisdom, surely it would not take much to knock her over and Vivienne would skin them all alive if they were hungover for the missive's ball. She'd give him a particularly wilting glare no doubt, as the most senior member there at the time still with their faculties: Cassandra was long past drunk herself and falling over the older Grey Warden like a besotted teen.

When the Inquisitor didn't return as quickly as he might have expected, he glanced back at the bar to check her progress, only to find a much taller man looming over her little form.

It might have been the affection that had been growing between them, it might have been the alcohol, but seeing the man's hand tugging tightly on the sleeve of her dress and leering made his blood boil. The tankard was discarded promptly as he marched his way over.

"Fetch me my drink now, you knife-eared whore."

Wren to her credit was standing her ground, but her ears were pinned and her cheeks were flushed. There was a dangerous glint in her eyes, and Cullen thought he saw magic crackle between her fingers. With the amount of alcohol in the building, a fire was the last thing they needed.

"Hey," Cullen's voice managed to carry over the crowd, and the soldier in question jerked his head in his direction. "You watch your tongue, soldier, if you intend to keep it."

"What's it to you, templar?" sneered the man, egged on by his brethren. The same men they'd recently recruited no doubt. "She your knife-eared bitch?"

He saw Wren's face darken further and the smell of burning appeared behind them, but Cullen was already drawing his arm back to clock the speaker squarely in the jaw. "You'll not speak your filth to her or anyone else!"

The soldier went down like a sack of bricks, but the alcohol had dulled Cullen's senses and he didn't see the other hand coming until it was too late. One of the other soldier's fists connected with his face, and he tasted blood. There was more yelling and eventually someone pulled the group apart. Blood rushed from his nose, and the blow knocked enough sense into him to actually look around for his bearings. It was actually Bull who'd hoisted him bodily away from the fray, which seemed to consist of a lot of the men on the ground groaning. He'd only punched a couple of them, while others struggled to find their feet from a ruined stool nearby. Wren looked barely worse for wear, her dress was crumpled but otherwise she seemed fine, looking rather pleased with herself. Her expression fell when she saw his face.

"Oh Cullen."

He dabbed at his nose experimentally, though he could feel the blood dripping down his chin. "Is it that bad?"

The Bull's rumbling laugh reverberated through his chest while the tavern returned to its normal boisterous self. "Looks like he got you good. Madame de Fer aint going to be pleased."

Cassandra came staggering over, supported in no small part by Blackwall. Despite this, the Seeker still managed to look intimidating.

"Just what do you think you're doing starting bar fights, Commander?"

He tried to staunch the flow with his sleeve, not really caring if the material was ruined. "You're one to talk, Lady Seeker."

Cassandra humphed, and had she been armed and sober she probably would have stabbed yet another helpless table. She nearly slipped from Blackwall's grasp, forcing him to catch her around the waist and hoist her up to her full height again. He didn't seem wholly too bothered by the situation, laughing heartily.

"I should take this one to her chambers so I'm not left with the task of waking her in the morning. You should get that looked at, it looks broken."

Behind the haze of alcohol and fading adrenaline, Cullen thought the Warden might just be right. Wren tsked as the burly man dragged off the intoxicated seeker, and Cullen almost recoiled as the elf suddenly filled his line of vision, peering intently at his nose. The Inquisitor was far from tall, and had to strain on her toes to get even half a view. She huffed, raising her arm as if to prod it experimentally but decided better of it.

"Come on, I'll fix that for you."

She grabbed him by the wrist before he could protest and all but dragged him from the tavern, into the shadowy courtyard outside. Beyond a few torches to cast a warm glow, only the stars and the wan moon provided light out there, and he almost questioned how she was going to fix anything in the dark before a ball of flame sprung up beside her head to light the way. Ah yes, mages: portable torches. Her steps were determined, if they did waver from straight a little more than usual as she sat him down on one of the marble benches under an oak.

"Shouldn't we be seeing a healer?" he asked uncertainly as she resumed her inspection, the flame hovering unnervingly close. Talking hurt, and he winced which only made the throbbing worse.

"They'll be busy with the soldiers," she replied absently. "Gengrene is somewhat more serious than a broken nose."

"This is life and death," replied Cullen, still watching the bobbing fireball out of the corner of his eye. "Or it will be when my face is swollen like I've run into a wasp's nest tomorrow. Do you think Vivienne would believe that I broke a jar of bees by accident?"

She leaned back and put her hands on her hips with a smirk. "No."

"I'm truly doomed."

Her lips quirked again, only now he was distracted by how the firelight played over her hair that had well and truly begun to unravel by now. "Have faith Commander, you forget I was trained to heal far greater injuries."

Her hand glowed blue and he immediately swallowed hard. "Should you be casting spells while intoxicated?"

"Next time ask yourself the same question before you punch a man in a bar," she replied, advancing on him. He didn't stop her so she plopped down beside him and gently raised her palm, holding his face steady with her left hand. Impossibly gentle fingers probed the injury, still causing him to hiss in breath in pain. "I could have handled them just fine."

Her lips tugged again as she struggled not to smile and realisation crossed his face. "It was _you_ who tossed them all about."

"I don't just blow things up you know," Wren said, as the glow in her hand got a little brighter. A very strange but not wholly unpleasant tingling sensation spread out from where her fingers touched him, tickling almost like an itch but under his skin and filled with warmth. "I could throw Bull across a room with my pinkie."

Her words sent a shiver down his spine. It wasn't as though he'd forgotten that she was a mage, her constant use of magic made that impossible, or that he'd forgotten mages were dangerous. But the fact they held such power within them, camouflaged and hidden, had slipped from the forefront of his mind.

"Thank you," she said finally, after a few quiet moments. "For stepping in anyway."

He tried to frown then thought better of it, meeting her eyes instead. "They had no right to say such things to you."

"They had no right to say such things to anyone," she replied serenely, but he was certain he caught a glint of hurt in her eyes. The light from her hand flared again, obscuring her from view entirely and he was forced to close his eyes against the glare. The sensation built, a pressure between his forehead that became increasingly unpleasant until he was actually squirming under her touch. He gritted his teeth when it became unbearable, then suddenly she grabbed hold of the bridge of his nose and pushed it back into place. There was a snap, another warm flare of magic and then the light was gone. So was the dull throbbing and the pressure too. Cullen blinked away the lights dancing in front of his vision, reaching up to experimentally touch the bridge of his nose. It was straight as he'd remembered it, and there was no pain.

Wren leaned in closer still, inspecting her handiwork. She took his face in her hands and turned it from side to side, before nodding to herself.

"Perfect."

Heat rushed to his cheeks when she didn't lower her hands, her fingers instead trailing almost curiously over the stubble scattered across his cheeks, tracing the shape of the scar on his lip.

"How did you get this?" she asked quietly, and he saw her eyelashes flutter as she looked up at him for a second before returning to the old healed injury.

"I was clumsy," he replied dryly after a moment, "Why, can you fix it too?"

Wren didn't have even a faded scratch to mar her complexion - that he'd seen anyway, and that thought didn't need completing - and he could only assume her her healing skills had kept her thus.

She tilted her head on the side to watch the different ways the light played off the raised wound. "Why would I do that? I like it."

"Is that so, Little Bird?" They were so close now their breath mingled and tickled against skin, and their foreheads almost brushed. Wren wiggled so she was almost perched on his lap. The ball of fire fizzled out, leaving only the ambient light to cast deep shadows and glint off her skin. His hand wandered to her thigh, tracing circles into the soft flesh with his thumb.

“Anything else?”

“Your eyes,” she murmured, swallowing him in her gaze. It was almost ironic, coming from the elf with such beautiful eyes herself, rich and russet and warm. Her eyelashes brushed his cheek as she looked down at his scar again, her fingers now tracing along his jaw. “Your smile.”

He captured her mouth with his, and the list was cut short. One hand went back to twine in his hair as her other hand cradled his jaw. His arm snaked around her waist to pull her closer, and she shifted, allowing him to support her as she sunk into his lap. Her lips were hot against his skin, like being kissed by fire, leaving burning paths in their wake. Curious hands ran over stubble, delved across broad shoulders and toyed with the edge of his belt.

As she pressed against his chest the scent of her perfume embraced him, tangy and fruity and sweet - honeysuckle, he finally realised. He could almost taste the nectar on her lips, a lingering sweentess. They moved like creatures possessed, battling for dominance, hungry for something that only the other could give them. Her teeth grazed his jaw, and he sucked at her plump bottom lip, his hands running along her thighs. What was it that she often said, she needed to know something about everything? Well, two could play at that game.

Light erupted from behind them, shadowy figures and noise spilling out from the tavern. Cullen and Wren broke apart, with the elf sliding back onto the seat with a frustrated huff like a guilty teen caught rutting in the neighbor's barn. The unmistakable outline of Bull blocked out the bulk of the light for a moment, followed by the shapes of what must be their other companions. For a second Cullen thought that they might go unnoticed, until Sera waved enthusiastically in their direction.

"Oi, Lavellan! We're leaving, apparently someone told Fancy Pants that we were still here. C'mon, Varric said he'd teach us how to play Wicked Grace."

The blonde elf seemed to finally notice Cullen sitting at her side, trying and failing to seem as small as possible. "How's your face, Commander?"

Aside from the dilated pupils and distinct flush colouring his cheeks, it was undoubtedly fine. The look that Wren cast him did not help. He merely nodded stiffly in response, not trusting anything else.

The group fidgeted for a moment, and Sera called out again impatiently. "You lot coming or not?"

Cullen shook his head and waved off the request, and Wren's grin only widened when she realised why he couldn't get up and go with the group. "I'm coming, hang on."  
  
She leaned in as she pushed herself upright, an almost innocent motion but for her lips brushing against his ear and her whispered breath heating his skin. Her eyes all but burned in the firelight as she cast a glance back at him over her shoulder. Cullen almost didn't catch it, his gaze centered decidedly lower. He thought he caught her laugh echoing off the stone walls. He'd be lucky to get any sleep at all.  
  
"Sleep well, Commander."


	11. Waltz and Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Orlesian Ball doesn't quite go to plan.

The party set out just before dawn, and a sorry lot they were too. Some fared better than others, while still more suffered in silence rather than weather Vivienne's glare. Cullen was more drowsy than hungover as he slouched in the saddle, but Cassandra wore a heavy helm to shield her eyes from the glare, and the group who'd gone off with Varric to play wicked grace all looked worse for wear. That is, aside from Wren who appeared as chirpy as ever, trotting her mount -if such a name could be applied to an undead charger- gleefully alongside Solas, conversing in rapid elvish. Every now and then she'd look back and suddenly he'd feel more awake. Last night's developments had not been forgotten in a drunken haze.

They camped their soldiers some ways off, in case things went very badly indeed. This was a subterfuge mission disguised as diplomacy, and as such Vivienne, Leiliana and Josephine were at its head. They could not lose sight of their objective, though you'd not know if from the way all three women were insisting on the intricacies of the party's fashion choices. Vivienne would not even let Wren ride her mount to the Villa, stating that the beast would scare any of the nobles off her instantly. Despite the Inquisitor's protests, she was ultimately overruled, but she apparently drew the line at riding in a carriage.

"I'll be next to useless in an ambush," she argued while the bog unicorn hung its head over her shoulder like a companionable dog. A deeply disturbing, skeletal, companionable dog. "I'm better out in the open, on a horse."

"Then you should have ridden one," sniffed the Orlesian mage. Wren looked affronted, and even moved to cover the unicorn's slightly decaying ears. "We cannot risk your safety, and you certainly cannot walk."

"I'll ride with Cullen."

"You will?" said Vivienne, arching an eyebrow as the elf beamed cheerfully.

"You'll what?" said Cullen, turning to pay proper attention to the conversation. He and the Orlesian mage had clearly heard two very different sentences.

"Iago's more than strong enough to carry the both of us," she continued, turning her innocent smile on him. "Isn't that right, Commander?"

He almost balked, caught between the elven mage's dangerous eyes and the enchanter's expectant gaze. "Yes, that's right-"

"Excellent," beamed Wren, returning to the much taller mage in victory. Cullen let his hand fall limply to his side in defeat. It wasn't that he didn't want to spend the next hour with the dalish mage holding onto him, that was precisely the problem. "It's settled then. And I'll be perfectly safe, the Commander can protect me."

There was quite a lot of sarcasm that suggested she needed nobody's protection as she skipped over to look up at Cullen with a wicked grin. Maker preserve him. "Won't you, Commander?"

Vivienne rolled her eyes, apparently in no mood for the elf's theatrics. "Very well, you don't have to ride in a carriage."

The enchantress stalked off to oversee the rest of the party mounting up, leaving Cullen trapped. Wren meanwhile looked immensely pleased with herself.

"You are going to be the death of me, Little Bird," he murmured, leaning down slightly so his breath tickled her ear, which wiggled appreciatively. He gave it a little tweak before he could stop himself. Wren was not the one who needed protecting, it was him. She tilted her head to look directly up at him with enormous eyes.

"Never, Commander."

The bay destrier was brought over by one of the human attendants, no doubt at Vivienne's insistence to get to them to hurry along. Cullen gave the gelding a friendly pat on the neck before mounting up and offering a hand to the elf. Hoisting her up onto Iago's back was easy, her weight was truly negligible - far less than if he or the horse were in full armour. Wren settled herself down, legs hanging to one side as she wrapped an arm firmly around his middle, propping her chin over his shoulder as best she could.

"Ride on then."

Cullen let out a shuddering sigh and urged the gelding forward, trying to ignore her hand which had snaked lower than ought to be necessary or proper.

"Must you?" he asked in a strained undertone. Her laugh fluttered in his ear.

"Must I what?"

She tugged on his belt and he coughed, drawing the looks from a few companions. He could feel heat rising to the tips of his ears. " _Witch_."

"Heathen," Wren smirked, "Apostate. _Temptress_."

"Yes, all of those things."

She laughed again, and he decided her outward appearance was so wholly separate from her personality they may as well be two completely different things. No one that wicked ought to look so innocent.

"Oh but da'len," she whispered, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. " _You like it_."

He made a noise in the back of his throat that definitely wasn't disagreement, then tried again. "No."

Wren grinned. "Liar."

He sighed again, sitting straighter in the saddle as they ambled behind the rest of the assembled group. Thank the Maker he hadn't put her in front of him in the saddle. This was bad enough. The short distance to the villa was going to be a long one, or not long enough, another part of him reasoned.

\-----

"You must wear something else, Inquisitor."

Wren pulled a face as she stared at the sea of ruffles before her. This had seemed a wonderful idea until she saw exactly what Vivienne and Josephine had in mind for her. Blending in was one thing, however this... She'd surely topple over in any of these garments, far too lavish and opulent for her.

"It won't matter what I'm wearing," she pointed out, perhaps a little more disparagingly than she'd hoped. The Orlesians had already proved the point quite clearly.

Vivienne tsked. "Nonesense darling, you merely need to be speaking their language. Their language here meaning clothing."

"Don't you have anything a little less..." Wren cast her eye over the overflowing chests again as she sat among the piles of fabric. " _Less_?"

"Surely there must be something a little more subdued," offered Josephine, ever diplomatic as she dug through the remaining items. "You must have some dress that would make her more comfortable, Vivi."

The Orlesian mage sniffed disparagingly as though the idea of her choosing something less than extravagant was beneath her. "My dear, I was tasked with giving us the best footing within nobility, and I know the nobility, they'll not accept anything less-"

"What about this?"

Josephine reemerged clutching something silken and gold between her fingers. Wren leaned forward eagerly as she held it up. The fabric was beautiful, soft and gauzy layers that shimmered under the light. Tiny golden beads and chains were laced across the back, cut low enough to possibly cause a stir, but most importantly there were no ruffles, and no collars. It wasn't understated exactly, but it felt more like something Wren might have worn. Something that wouldn't completely swallow her.

"Try it on," offered Josephine hopefully, handing the garment to the little elf who ran it through her fingers.

"What do you think?"

Wren twirled, luxuriating in the way the skirt swirled around her ankles. "It's beautiful."

"The fabric is handspun silk, exclusively from Val Royaeux's finest merchants. The Empress herself wears nothing finer, far different I suppose from what you might be used to."

Josephine shot the enchantress a glare which the mage waved off, and the elf for the most part seemed to ignore. She and the enchantress were rarely on the same page, but they tolerated one another well enough. Despite the Antivan's best efforts, Vivienne still seemed to say things that were thoughtless. Perhaps not intentionally hurtful, but insensitive nevertheless. This evening hinged on diplomacy, and while the enchantress knew the ins and outs of the Orlesian game, many of the attending companions did not. The Inquisitor was of primary concern - she'd face the greatest scrutiny, not just because she was an elf, and Wren had proven to be quite a loose canon on some of their previous outings.

"I think it's perfect," said Josephine, doing her best to diffuse the situation before it became hostile. The elf and enchantress both seemed to be masters of passive aggressive wordplay, which would be very helpful to the Inquisition if they could just harness their talents for the evening. "You look so beautiful. A true lady."

Wren laughed, as though the very idea was ridiculous. "You think?"

"Of course, Inquisitor, " insisted the Antivan advisor, sitting her down again and reaching for an ornate comb. "Or you will, once we're done with you."

\------

She found him standing away from the warmth and music in a moonlit hall, gazing out the elegant arched windows into the darkness beyond. The shoes she'd been told to wear by the two women were beginning to make her feet truly ache, and she kicked them off one at a time as she approached, announcing her presence.

"Little bird," he murmured, turning slightly away from his reverie. Normally she was quieter, but the alcohol was beginning to get the better of her and considering their other assignment that evening, she hadn't wanted to startle him.

"Fancy finding you here," she smiled playfully, leaning down to scoop the shoes off the floor and dangle them off two fingers. "As far from the dancing as physically possible while still remaining in the estate."

He ran a hand through his hair, a faint blush colouring his cheeks. "Maker. My apologies for that, I didn't permanently maim you did I?"

She laughed, a soft airy sound that carried around the corridor. "It would take more than a few carelessly placed feet to catch me off guard, Commander."

His eyes held hers, but she could still tell the 'ordeal' still played over in his mind. "I only wish I'd not embarrassed us both."

"I could teach you, if it bothered you so much." She grinned an open challenge, discarding the ornate shoes on the floor with a clatter for a second time as she stepped forward, twirling around to face him and take him by the hand. Without the added height she rested comfortably beneath his chin, not that this deterred her in the slightest. Dragging him to the centre of the walkway she balanced on the balls of her feet, eyes glittering in the reflected light from the hall, egging him on. His hand fell to her waist, lower than the chaste hold he'd resolutely maintained earlier and she took it as a good sign. Cullen, the perfectionist he was, preferred not to show any weakness in public, even dancing. The faint hum of music still provided a beat, and she began to lead him about, part serious part playful and not abiding by half the Orlesian dancing customs. They were not how she'd been taught to dance, but she wouldn't push Cullen too far out of his comfort zone, hoping instead that the looser movements would make him relax.

At first, he still looked down as if he were afraid of what his feet might be doing without his constant supervision. "Hey," she quipped cheerfully, pushing against his chest suddenly to make him change direction, proving that he could indeed do so on instinct alone. "They aren't going anywhere, this is just like fighting in a duel. They'll know what to do."

He gave her a look that suggested he very much doubted that fact, but he didn't challenge her, instead made a concerted effort to look at her face, only occasionally dropping his gaze when he thought his feet might be running away with him. His rigid posture softened after a few minutes and for that she was immensely relieved, the ache in her arm fading away. He'd picked up the rhythm, moving when she did, allowing himself to let go. She threw in a few more playful twists and turns to see whether he'd waver, but to her pleasure he didn't, and she laughed as she spun around him.

"See, not so hard, is it?" she said a little breathlessly, looking up at him again.

The corner of his mouth twitched. "No, not so hard."

For the first time, he actually took the initiative, rather than the other way around, leading into her and guiding her across the small space. He was still awkward in his movements, but she didn't mind, impressed he'd actually try it in the first place. His brows were furrowed in concentration, but the focus was endearing, reminding her of their training sessions. His breath ruffled her hair, and she laughed as he pressed her through a tight turn, sending her out with a flourish she hadn't known he had in him. His arm extended before pulling her momentum back to him, her clingy skirts curling around her ankles. She landed, surprised, against his chest with a slight oof.

"Have you been taking lessons with Vivienne?" she demanded with a smirk.

Cullen looked wholly too smug to be innocent, a smile teasing his lips that were outlined in the faint golden glow from the ballroom.

"No," he shifted his weight against her and they were moving again, slower as the song wound down. She could feel the heat of his hand hovering on the small of her back through the silk as she looked up at him.

" _Liar._ "

"Maybe one or two." The ghost of a smile was replaced with the real deal as she felt her back brush up against the smooth stone. His hand released hers to lean on the wall behind her, effectively trapping her there. The smile remained as he considered her, eyes dark in the shadowy archway.

Normally, she would have replied with some witty quip. Normally, he would not still be standing over her, his hand would not have lingered at the base of her spine. It would not take much for it to slip lower. She watched his throat bob as he swallowed hard, the both of them frozen in place. His thumb ran gentle touches up and down her waist, while his other hand dropped from the wall to catch a stray lock of hair that had come loose during their impromptu waltz. Gently - was his hand shaking? - he tucked it behind a tapered ear, taking the opportunity to trace its shape. His hand hovered there, cupping her jaw, his expression unreadable. Slowly he leaned down from his great height to brush his lips across hers. Her breath caught and quickened, chasing the brief contact though he hadn't gone far.

He moved slowly, deliberately. The kiss was languid, almost chaste to begin with as he seemed content to savor the feel of her against him. His tongue brushed hers, asking permission, and she granted it. The kiss deepened, his fingers running absently over her ears, eliciting a quiet noise from the back of her throat. She felt him smile against her skin, the stubble scratching along her jaw. Her hands reached up to gain purchase on what they could, the flat planes of his chest, his shoulders, tangling in the hair at the back of his neck. His height made the angle awkward, and his hand trailed down over the arch of her rear, lingering there for a moment, to hook around her thigh. His other hand followed suit, and with a gruff sound of satisfaction he hoisted her up with seemingly little effort so he could pin her against the wall. She wrapped her legs around his waist and rested her weight on his hips, causing her skirts to hitch and bunch. His lips returned to hers hungry, and she returned his enthusiasm, enjoying the easier reach, hooking her arms around his neck and fisting her fingers in his hair.

Cullen moved on from her mouth, trailing kisses down her jaw to nibble on her earlobe, brushing teeth against the sensitive skin. Her back arched into him and she tilted her head back as her breath caught, allowing him easier access. He made a noise deep in his chest again and shifted her weight so he could run a hand up her side, brushing the outline of her breast through the flimsy fabric. Neither of them seemed to care that a party was still underway in the next room.

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway before their owner and the pair fell apart, disentangling limbs reluctantly. Cullen swore under his breath, still leaning possessively over her for a moment more, and Wren's hair was in a state of disarray, her dress crumpled.

" _Creators_ ," she muttered, "This needs to stop happening."

Cullen made a noise of agreement and pushed off the wall, turning to find Sera come barreling into the corridor, before making a flying leap out the archway into the garden below. Bull was in hot pursuit, his run far less quiet.

"Come on, they're heading for the stables."

Wren sighed and promptly ripped the side of the delicate dress to make clambering through archways easier. Cullen offered her a helping hand and a rueful glance.

"The sooner we catch them, the sooner we return to Skyhold." And other more pressing activities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The remaining chapters will be uploaded shortly guys, thanks for your patience!


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